A Slytherin Sonata
by Nanaho-Hime
Summary: Part 2: Pansy plays a crying violin.
1. Draco's Piano

A Slytherin Sonata

By Nanaho-Hime

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

Part 1: Requiem

* * *

Malfoy Manor is taken from them after the war. It is not as though they have nowhere to go, heaven's no! They are the Malfoys and to have only one manor is absurd. Secretly, they are glad to be rid of it. The Manor holds dark memories of the Dark Lord, and his headquarters and his miserable stay in their haven.

Draco is allowed to enter for a few hours, before the home is examined thoroughly and destroyed in the process, and he cannot help but feel slightly sorrowful. His childhood and his memories are thoroughly embedded in the walls of the manor, and it would appear that he would be left only photographs and his own faulty reminiscing.

There is only one room in particular that he wishes to see. He is afraid that he will not let go if he tours the manor one last time, but there is one room that does not hold that threat.

He makes his way to the back, where the unimportant rooms gather dust. Tucked away in the corner, barely noticeable, his footstep echo as he steps onto the hardwood floor.

It is an empty room, save for the grand piano sitting regally in the center. It is old, covered in a sizable layer of dust. He hasn't played it in many years now, but he remembers times when he'd sneak in and his fingers would move adeptly over the black and white ivory keys.

The piano seems to scold him as he tentatively steps closer.

_Where have you been?_

He runs a finger over the keys, leaving a palpable line. All well-bred kids know how to play at least one of the classical instruments, never-mind that it is also a trait of wealthy muggles.

Music is the only thing that transcends blood lines and hatred.

He ignores the dust and the eerie shadows on the walls, and plays a very flat B. He winces, and pulls out his wand. With a flick of his wrist the piano is tuned again, and he timidly plays a middle C.

Perfect.

Irritated with the dust, he rids the bench and the piano of all signs of the deterioration. There is an itch in his fingers, one he hasn't felt in a long time, and he knows that it will drive him mad unless he plays.

It upsets him, that he can't remember the pages and pages of Chopin, and Mozart, and Beethoven and Tchaikovsky. But some songs never truly leave your fingertips.

He plays a sad melody, a short piece, nostalgic and tragic, the composer long forgotten and unimportant. The composition echoes throughout the empty manor, inside his head and inside his heart. Moolight streams in through the dusty glass, and he thinks of the loss of innocence.

He thinks of who he was, of his enlightening and incredibly horrifying sixth year, the year he was violently forced to be a man.

He knows he isn't the boy he used to be. He is hollow, and broken and remorseful. He will not hold his head up high for years to come.

He wonders why he stopped playing. It is rather cathartic, and when his time is up he is the tiniest bit contrite.

The piano will be burned.

* * *

A/N: Opinions? I personally play the piano and the harp and I'm very much in love with music. This will be a tentative four or three part series involving a Slytherin with their instrument.

Reviews would be lovely :)


	2. Pansy's Violin

Part 2: Symphony

* * *

Very soon after the war ends she experiences a complete and total breakdown. Some call her mad and she does not even possess the lucidity to disagree with them. She's very very drunk most of the time, and her days pass in a series of colorful blurs and strangers with names that never really connect coherently in her mind.

She's become pitiful and she absolutely hates it; the way people whisper behind their hands whenever she stumbles by on the streets of London, the way they look at her as though she's someone to feel sorry for. She wants to spit in their faces. She wants to remind them that she's Pansy Bloody Parkinson and, as far as she can tell, she's still wearing her crown.

It's almost sad, that she just can't seem to let go. The girl with the bitter smile and the broken eyes is well known in the pubs of London, and she's usually thrown out in disgrace. She causes dramatic scenes and the pity is soon replaced with a roll of the eyes, disgust is soon prevalent.

She likes it better that way, anything is better than pity, she's never wanted pity.

There's a tramp in the bar, and she's saying some nasty things and Pansy doesn't take anything lying down. The barmaid is screaming bloody murder, and her headache is steadily becoming worse with the shrill cries and the crashes of upturned tables and broken bottles.

(she's very partial to shards of glass; they feel very familiar)

She's too drunk to understand what is happening but someone has taken a hold of her elbow; the taller man is leading her outside the bar and she wants to protest but she's just too damn tired.

She sees messy dark hair and green eyes and glasses and she hates this face, this man, who took away the solid ground and made her whole existence an expendable tragedy.

"Parkinson, let's bring you home," his voice is tired and she doesn't know why he would be tired. He's won hasn't he? He's loved isn't he? He'll never want for anything anymore and what right does he have to tired? To exhaustion and fragility and sadness? What does he know?

(the really awful thing is that he does understand and maybe she empathizes a little bit, because this feeling? It's really terrible.)

She doesn't want his pity, she doesn't want his help. He's trying to speak to her but she's struggling against his firm grip.

"Pansy, we can help you, you don't need to live like this, you could be happy."

The thing is, he doesn't understand, she's always known that she'd go out in this quick flash of ugly sadness and be forgotten by everyone because, ultimately, she is very forgettable.

She wants to escape his grasp and stumble back to her flat and sleep, but there's a street performer, playing a violin, and he sounds so God awful she can't stand it. Her pureblood heritage had required her to learn music and the violin was her passion, her love, the only beautiful thing that would ever come from her. She knows this and it's her guilty pleasure.

This idiot is butchering the beauty of her instrument and she can't stand it. No one will ruin the only beauty she possesses. So she wrenches herself from Potter's grasp and marches over to the offender. She's aware that she's not really making any sense, she's never denied her insanity, but she grabs the instrument and she plays and thrill spreads through her heart and she feels very much alive.

(it's a wonderful feeling)

Her violin, it sings, it cries, it laughs and it screams. The idiot street performer is staring at her open mouthed as is Potter, like she's shocked them, like she's beautiful.

The violin whispers many secrets when it sings like this and she regrets the end of the song, regrets that she was forced to sell her own lovely violin many years ago. She shoves the violin back at the horrible street performer, her words slur.

"And that's how you play a violin you git."

She allows Potter to take her elbow, and she allows him to apparate her flat. She falls asleep to the sound of a crying violin still ringing in her ears.

* * *

A/N: Reviews are lovely indeed


End file.
